The end of the world
by BHP
Summary: A Hallowe'en sacrifice.


All the usual disclaimers apply: none of the characters are mine, neither is the show.

Hallowe'en is not a big thing where I live, so my take on it may be a little unusual. There are pumpkins and costumes, though, so it does meet the challenge requirements. Hope you enjoy it!

The end ofthe world  
By BHP

He was alone. He'd been alone since they'd come for him the day before. At least, he thought it was the day before. The level of light in the room had been constant since his arrival there, so he could be wrong about how much time had passed. It was strange, the things that unceasing terror could do to the mind.

He tried not to think about what they might want from him. He tried not to think about why they'd taken him, or what they planned to do with him, or even who they were. Basically, he tried not to think about anything at all. Too much thinking opened the gates of fear again, and terror washed through him at the thoughts of what might happen. Of what would most likely happen to him.

Where he was from, everyone knew everyone else in their small country community. Everyone had the same background, and everyone wanted similar things from life: peace, strength, growth, youngsters to carry the family on into the future, someone to remember you long after you were gone. It was a peaceful life, where everyone lived in harmony, in well-ordered rows of family plots.

But everyone shared the same fears. Every community like his had at least one elder still living, sometimes more than one; those who'd seen more seasons come and go than everyone else. The elders always lived alone, with plots at the end of the dirt tracks, open places with the most sun. Venerable and wizened, the elders commanded loyalty, respect and unquestioning belief. He'd always questioned, and now he regretted it.

The elders told stories, and their stories were enough to scare the young ones out of weeks of peaceful nights. Listening to the elders talk caused nightmares in the very young, and those slightly older learned to fence the fear away; to hide it behind a shield of false bravado and a façade of indifference. But the terror was still there, ready to pounce in the night, when defences dropped to their lowest ebb.

As if merely thinking about the elders had been enough to summon their stories, he couldn't stop the tales from running through his mind: unbidden, unwanted, and yet inescapable.

The stories always started the same way. Summer was always idyllic, sun-drenched, warm and lush. Life was good, days long and pleasant. And then the seasons began to turn. Days shortened, the air turned cooler, and the dusk lengthened slowly into longer nights. The cold grew and the darkness came closer. And the disappearances began.

It was always the older ones who went missing first, then those slightly younger, and finally, some of the youngest in the community would disappear as well. None ever returned, and all were presumed dead. A few were left untouched each killing season, to become the elders who terrified each new generation.

And now it was his turn to be among those who vanished. He'd mocked the elders all his life, refused to let himself believe their stories, and now he was forced to admit the truth of every word they'd ever spoken. In his secret heart, hidden from the world around him and buried deep inside him, he'd hoped that somehow he'd survive to become an elder. Today he would have to accept that this would never be his destiny.

He longed to see his home one more time, smell the scents of his youth and hear the sounds of a life he'd never fully appreciated until it was too late. But he knew it would never happen: he'd been taken, and those taken never returned.

The sound of voices coming towards the door of the room sent terror soaring through him, swift on bat-dark wings. Knowing there was no cover to hide behind, he stood firm to face his death, trembling inside.

Two men entered the room: one young, one old. The older man was white-haired, wearing old shorts and a brightly coloured shirt in a printed pattern of parrots. His face seemed stern but kind, and hope flared for a moment. But the moment was short-lived, as the older man waved the younger man forward.

The younger man was tall, with brown curly hair. He wore jeans and sneakers, an old t-shirt, and had laughing blue eyes. He carried two plastic clothing bags in one hand, both emblazoned with a neon pink name: Masque's Costume Hire. One bag contained a black eye mask, a dark hat, spurs and a cape; the other a buckskin outfit with tassels and moccasins.

Passing both bags to the older man, the younger picked up a large carving knife and headed across the room toward him. The look of pleasure and anticipation in the blue eyes scared him, and he wanted to run as the man reached out a hand toward him. As the young man grabbed him, he wanted to struggle, but there was nothing he could do, nowhere to run, no way to fight his fate.

The young man raised the knife and attacked. A silent scream filled his mind as the darkness rose up and dragged him down.

Mark efficiently sliced the top off the pumpkin and removed the innards, putting them aside to use later. Sarah had left him the recipe for her pumpkin pie many years ago, when she'd left the estate for the last time, and he figured that between them, he and the judge should be able to follow one simple recipe.

Smiling as he carved a demonic grin into the pumpkin's skin, he cast a glance at Hardcastle, noting the almost indulgent grin on the older man's face. The judge loved Hallowe'en; Mark could only imagine that the years when Tommy had been a child must have been quite a spectacle. He could picture the front hall festooned with paper chains of black bats, white ghosts and orange pumpkins. He could almost see a young Tommy Hardcastle, no doubt dressed like Casper the ghost, tugging on his father's hand and nagging to go out trick-or-treating with his friends.

"Hey, Judge. Have you ever wondered what the pumpkins think about Hallowe'en? I mean, things don't really seem to go their way, do they?" Mark's question made Hardcastle laugh out loud. Mark shook his head slightly and indicated the pumpkin in front of him, gutted on the altar of their love of Hallowe'en.

"Pumpkins don't think, kiddo. And keep carving, we've still got to do the one we're taking to Frank's place for the party. Which reminds me, I'd better go and get another pumpkin from the vegetable patch." Hardcastle left the room, Mark's voice trailing along behind him. "Judge, please move those two old wrinkled pumpkins at the end of the rows for me. I left them to go to seed for next year, and I think they should be dry enough by now." A single grunt was the only indication his words had been heard, and Mark turned back to designing his pumpkin's face.

Five minutes later, Hardcastle dumped another pumpkin on the table next to Mark. Nodding his approval at the face on the first pumpkin, he headed upstairs with their costumes dangling from his hand. Shaking his head in amusement at the strange ideas that Mark always seemed to come up with, he muttered to himself, "Thinking pumpkins; what next? That'll be the day!"


End file.
